Page 1 of Bratva Daddy
Chapter 1
Clara
Here’swhatI’velearnedin life: if you’re in a shitty situation, smile through it.
That’s what I did when my dad used to bully me for not being tough enough.
That’s what I did when the kids at school teased me for being a politician’s daughter.
And that’s what I do now, age 23, every time I have to sit through a pointless three-hour meeting with people I despised.
At least it was over now.
The trouble with the meeting is that they should have been positive. They were for fundraising events, for hospitals and youth centers and community buildings. But you wouldn’t have thought that if you were there. You would have thought, “Why are they all talking about whether the hospital gala's centerpieces should feature white orchids or cream roses, instead of trying to make as much money for the cancer ward as possible?”
It made me want to scream. I didn’t, though. I smiled.
It was infuriating. Especially when I had my own event coming up—the "Home & Hope" auction I'd spent the last three months organizing. That was real work, raising real funds for homeless services throughout Manhattan. I’d personally curated every lot, begging and bargaining for original artwork from emerging artists and that week-long cooking class with a James Beard winner. That mattered. The color of the damn roses did not.
Still. I smiled. It's what Viktor Petrov's daughter did—performed politeness like a trained seal while the city's elite pretended their charity lunches actually changed anything.
October air hit my face, sharp enough to cut through the Chanel No. 5 fog that had suffocated me in the Oak Room. I shifted the Bergdorf Goodman bags in my hands—a cashmere scarf I didn't need, shoes that would join dozens of others in my closet, a handbag that cost more than most people's monthly salary.
Shopping as anesthesia.
Buying things to feel something, anything, even if it was just the brief flutter of acquisition before the numbness returned.
I turned into Central Park at the Pulitzer Fountain entrance, needing trees and sky instead of marble and crystal. The path was familiar, worn into my muscle memory from hundreds of walks when the penthouse walls pressed too close. Joggers passed in their expensive athleisure, nannies pushed designer strollers, and tourists snapped photos of fall foliage that blazed orange and gold against the afternoon sun.
The bench near Bethesda Fountain came into view, and my steps slowed. Maria sat in her usual spot, a fixture as reliable as the angel statue hovering over the water. Her thin coat—the same one she'd worn last March—hung loose on her shrinking frame. October had teeth this year, and she huddled into herself, weathered hands tucked into opposite sleeves for warmth.
"Maria," I called softly, not wanting to startle her.
Her head lifted, eyes focusing slowly like she was pulling herself back from somewhere far away. Recognition sparked, and her face creased into the kind of smile that made her beautiful despite the missing teeth and deep lines etched by a hard life.
"Miss Clara." Her accent wrapped around my name like a blessing. "You look pretty today. Always so pretty."
I sat beside her, setting the shopping bags between us like an offering. The bench was cold through my designer jeans, but Maria radiated a different kind of chill—the bone-deep cold of someone who'd been outside too long.
"How have you been?" I asked, though the answer was obvious. Her cheeks had hollowed since last I saw her, and her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her coat.
"Is okay. God provides." She patted my hand with fingers that felt like ice. "You? Your father, he is well?"
My father. The man who owned half of Manhattan's political machinery. "He's fine. Busy with his important work."
Maria nodded sagely, as if she understood the weight of important men and their important work. Maybe she did. Maybe that's how she'd ended up here, discarded by someone who'd decided she wasn't important enough.
I reached into the Bergdorf bag and pulled out the cashmere scarf—soft as a whisper, the color of fresh cream. Three hundred dollars of warmth that I'd bought because the salesperson said it brought out my eyes. My eyes didn't need bringing out. Maria needed warmth.
"For you," I said, wrapping it around her neck before she could protest. The cashmere looked incongruous against her worn coat, like a swan had landed on a pigeon, but her eyes filled with tears.
"No, no, is too much—"
"It's nothing." I pulled a fifty from my wallet, pressing it into her shaking hands. "For coffee and something warm to eat. Promise me you'll get something hot today."
She clutched the bill like it might disappear, tears spilling down her cheeks. "God bless you, Miss Clara. God bless your kind heart."
Kind heart. If she knew the truth—that I gave her things because she was the only person in my life who looked at me with genuine gratitude, who saw me as more than Viktor Petrov's decorative daughter—would she still call me kind? Or would she recognize the selfishness in my charity, the desperate need to matter to someone, anyone, even for a moment?
